


Meeting Rochefort

by fuxfell



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Drugs, Explicit Sexual Content, Humiliation, M/M, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 01:20:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7993369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuxfell/pseuds/fuxfell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos gets a summons to Rochefort's mansion. Things don't go well. Warning: Dark fic, contains rape and drug use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _This is actually the first time I feel the need to apologize before posting a story. It's totally not my fault, I swear!_
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>  _I was watching the show with a friend, I told her I was writing an Athos slash story (A Special Kind of Hell), and she said, full of dread, that she sure hoped I was not pairing him up with Rochefort. Completely appalled, I answered: "Of course not! How would those two end up together?", and bang! - there was_ this _in my head. I shuddered and tried to get rid of it, but_ it just would not go away! _It just stuck in my head until I finally caved and wrote it down. And then it simmered on my hard disk, demanding to be let loose on innocent, unsuspecting readers._
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> _Of course my friend, who started it all, denies all responsibility and won't even read it further than the first part. Because, oh yes, it just would not leave me alone, and now it's kind of a trilogy._
> 
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> _My mind is a scary place sometimes._
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> _Because, as you can imagine, any story involving Rochefort would not be pretty. This is the most disturbing thing I cranked out so far. It contains flat out rape (no dancing around calling it non-con), drug use, humiliation and a lot of craziness, mostly on Rochefort's part. Because let's face it, the man is mad as a hatter._
> 
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> _Still, even if I loathe the guy, there's something about him that fascinates me. I just dig those dark, brooding, obsessive types. And poor Athos has to suffer for it._
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> _Oh, and it's basically PWP._
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> _You've been warned._

Frowning, Athos throws one last glance on the scrap of paper in his hands before crushing it and stuffing it in his pockets.

_The Comte de Rochefort requests your presence in his lodgings. Tonight, at the twentieth hour. Timeliness is requested._

Signed with a lazily scrawled "R."

Damn. What could Rochefort want from him? Athos eyes the entrance to the pompous mansion suspiciously. Is he making a mistake, coming here?

Rochefort is a bastard, and he hates the man from the bottom of his heart. Still, he is First Minister now, the king's confidante. You don't ignore a summons from the First Minister.

And would Rochefort try something underhanded in is own home? The man is sly and slick as a worm, always making sure he comes up clean under scrutiny. Making sure none of his crimes can be traced back to him.

If he was planning something nefarious, he would not ask for a meeting in his home.

Surely not.

Squaring his shoulders and putting his face in neutral, Athos lifts the heavy knocker and lets it fall back with a resonating noise. Shortly after, the door swings open, showing the distinguished figure of what had to be Rochefort's majordomo, an elderly man in a sombre suit - looking more regal than his master ever did. 

With a respectful bow, the man makes way for Athos to enter, closing the door behind him and gingerly accepting Athos' hat and coat. 

"The Comte is expecting you in his office, sir", he says, every word pronounced with care. "If you would follow me, please?"

Athos just nods, not able to shake the foreboding he has about this, telling himself he is being paranoid. He follows the butler through gloomy halls full of dark, gloomy furniture and equally gloomy portraits of what were probably a long line of Comtes and Comtesses, and shudders inwardly. Gloomy seems to be the overall theme. This was where Rochefort grew up? No wonder the guy lost most of his marbles. The atmosphere is stifling, daunting.

The majordomo knocks at a dark and polished door, then opens it. "Your visitor has arrived, my lord", he says respectfully, and with another perfectly executed bow indicates for Athos to enter.

With a deep breath, Athos steps into the room, instantly feeling somewhat relieved. Obviously, Rochefort is not so fond of the dismal pompousness and oppressive air of the mansion himself, because his own room, while still quite opulent, is held in lighter colours, and modern furnishings, beside being well lit, scores of candles burning in sconces along the walls.

Athos relaxes a little and nods to Rochefort, who looks up from a parchment he is reading at his desk. The man looks slightly dishevelled, as he always does, his blond hair tousled, as if he was driving his fingers through it repeatedly, his black shirt open over his muscular chest, a row of chains and pendants peeking out from under the fabric. His dark blue eyes are intense as he gazes at Athos, returning the nod.

The man is a bastard, but even Athos has to admit he is a handsome one. No wonder he managed to win the queen's favour. _And_ the king's. 

The door closes behind Athos with a soft click, and Rochefort puts the parchment down on his desk, gesturing at one of the rich leather chairs placed in front of his desk.

"Please, have a seat", he says in his pleasant, full baritone.

How can such a comely shell hide so much rottenness underneath?

Athos sits down, returning Rochefort's stare coolly. "Well?", he just says. No reason for small talk, after all. This is not a dinner party.

Rochefort gets up with a smooth motion and procures two glasses from a sideboard behind him. He holds up a decanter with a dark red liquid, probably port, and raises his eyebrows questioningly. Athos just shrugs. He does not care what he drinks, as long as it helps speed things up. He wants out of here.

Rochefort fills two glasses and passes one to Athos, sitting back in his chair, sipping. His gaze passes through Athos now, not really seeing him, his mind obviously elsewhere.

Athos takes a mouthful of the wine as well. Port, as expected. Strong, sweet, probably costing more than he makes in a year as a musketeer. Something that would have been found in his wine cellar in the old days.

Athos shakes the thought away. The Comte de la Fère no longer exists. Neither does his wine cellar.

He clears his throat, and Rochefort's eyes snap to him, his mind drawn back to the present.

"My apologies", he says, smoothly.

Athos shifts impatiently, taking another sip of the wine. He's not interested in Rochefort's courtesy. He wants the guy to talk, already. "So, what's this about?", he asks, bluntly, not seeing any need to play nice with the man. 

Rochefort smiles faintly. "So... direct", he murmurs. "As you wish. There is a matter I need to discuss with you. A rather... delicate matter. Concerning the dauphin." He leans back, drinking, observing Athos over the rim of his glass, those intense eyes missing nothing.

Athos nearly chokes on his own sip of wine. Dear mother of god. This can not be good.

"The... dauphin?" Athos asks, his voice carefully neutral. "I hope he is well? Is there any cause for concern?"

"Oh, the queen's son is alive and well", Rochefort answers, and the choice of words is not lost on Athos. He takes another deep gulp of wine, letting the glass hide his face. 

This is not good. Not good at all.

"I was worried, for a moment", Athos replies, ignoring the implication of Rochefort's words. The room suddenly feels stifling and hot. He takes another sip of the cool wine, hoping it would help.

"Well", Rochefort says, putting down his glass while watching Athos like a hawk. "There's still the problem that, in fact, there _is_ no dauphin."

Athos jumps up. "What are you...", he starts, but does not finish the sentence. The room is suddenly spinning around him, and he has to catch himself on the back of the heavy leather chair to keep on his feet. His head feels light, his thoughts tangled.

And Rochefort is still watching with that faint smile on his face.

Athos' gaze is drawn to his nearly empty glass. "You bastard", he slurs, his tongue suddenly clumsy in his mouth. "What...?"

Rochefort's smile widens slightly. "Nothing too bad, don't worry", he answers. "You will be out in a few seconds, but it won't kill you."

The last words ring hollow in Athos's ears as the floor comes rushing up to meet his face. Then there is only darkness.

XXX

When he comes to, his head is pounding and his mouth is dry. His eyes feel gritty. He coughs, and tries to rub his eyes, but his hands won't move. He blinks, trying to remember where he is, how he comes to be here, and then it all comes back to him.

Rochefort. His not so subtle hints that he knows about the dauphin. The _wine_.

Athos turns his head and realizes he is in a small but opulent chamber. Scented candles flicker, painting everything in a rosy, mellow light. It would be quite homey, if not for the fact that he is tied to the bed. Naked.

And that Rochefort is there, still regarding him with that faint, mocking smile.

Athos tries to speak, but his mouth is parched. The only thing he can manage is a dry croak.

Rochefort gets up, taking a jug from a small side table, and pours a clear liquid into a glass. He comes over and puts the glass to Athos' lips.

Athos just glares at him.

"Oh, come on", Rochefort sighs. "You need it. It's just water. Quite safe, I assure you."

Athos hesitates for a moment, but finally drinks. Rochefort is right. He needs water. What choice does he have?

"The water is safe. The _drug_ I gave you earlier, while you were still out", Rochefort adds conversationally.

Athos chokes, coughing water all over the bed. _"What?",_ he croaks, unbelieving. "What drug?" Panic starts clawing at his insides.

Rochefort reaches into one of his pockets, procuring a small bottle containing a deep amber liquid, holding it out for Athos to inspect.

"Something I made... intimate acquaintance with during my _stay_ in Spain", he tells Athos lightly. "The effects should make themselves known quite soon."

His gaze flicks to Athos' privates, and a feeling of dread settles in Athos' stomach. "Oh yes", Rochefort says softly. "They used to force it on me, then amuse themselves with me for hours. Such fond memories."

He gets up and procures another bottle, this one containing something white and viscous. "They also used this", he adds, pulling the stopper and dribbling the stuff on Athos' cock. Athos tries to shift away, but he's bound and can't move much. With a clinical detachment, Rochefort reaches out, his fingers gliding over Athos, spreading the gel evenly. Immediately, a soft burning starts, and Athos feels his cock twitching. Also, a heavy heat is spreading through his body, making his limbs loose. His mind feels fuzzy again.

"Please excuse me", Rochefort says, his smile an undisguised sneer by now. "I need to wash my hands."

"Dirty, rotten bastard", Athos pants, finding that his lungs cannot provide enough air anymore. His cock is swelling, and his loins are burning. He barely keeps from rolling his hips. What is that stuff Rochefort fed him? "Can't find someone willing for your perverse needs?"

Rochefort wheels around, towel in hand. "My perverse needs?" he asks, sharply. "Don't flatter yourself. You think I'm doing this because I want to touch you? Don't make me laugh!" He stalks closer, a mad light in his eyes as they are fixed on Athos. "I don't like men, and if I did, it would not be _you._ Women... Women are beautiful. Soft. Enticing. You... are a means to an end."

"What..." Athos starts again, but a wave of need rolls through his body, and he ends up gasping for air. His cock is so hard it hurts by now.

Rochefort chuckles softly. "Potent, isn't it?", he asks, sitting down in a plush chair, watching Athos.

"You know", he continues blithely, while Athos refrains from squirming with gritted teeth, "I put a lot of thought into this. I need your little four-leaved clover broken up. You are seriously getting in my way. But killing you would accomplish nothing, the ones remaining would be at my heels more doggedly than ever, hot for revenge. So I need you alive, but out of commission. I think this is the way to achieve that."

Athos pants, unable to speak. Whatever Rochefort gave him, it makes his head swim, and his body ache. He desperately wants to touch himself, end this burning.

"I contemplated which one of you was suited best. Porthos is far too thick-headed. Used to stuff like this. Probably done a lot worse in his youth. He would just shrug it off. d'Artagnan... he's so girly, he might just end up liking it. That's not what I'm after. Aramis... he might be suitable. But he's also strong. And he loves... her. That would keep him from breaking. Thoughts of her. I know it pulled _me_ through" His voice catches a little, but then he continues. "But you... you are perfect. The leader in all but name. The one they look up to. The one they respect most. You are strong." He leans forward, his lips pulled back, baring his teeth. "But you are also empty. You have nothing to fall back to. Your pride makes you brittle. Your strength is hollow. You will break."

Athos tries to spit in his face, but there's not enough moisture left. "You think forcing yourself on me will break me?", he gasps, then clenches his teeth to keep from moaning as another hot wave of need runs through him. "This is nothing!"

Rochefort sits back again, chuckling slightly, his chin resting on is stapled fingers. "Oh no", he says mildly. "What will break you is that you will _ask_ for it. That you will beg me to take you. Plead for my cock up your ass. Cry for my touch. That you will love what I do to you, and scream for more."

"Never!", Athos spits out.

Sighing, Rochefort gets up and turns to the door. "Yeah", he says softly, his back to Athos. "That's what _I_ said in the beginning."

 

XXX

Athos has no idea how much time has passed. His mind swims, his body burns. He helplessly rolls his hips, desperate for friction, anything to touch his aching cock. He feels like he's going crazy with need. His breath comes in short, hard gasps.

He's tried shifting his hips as far as he can, seeing that he's tied spreadeagled to the bed, tried to get his cock to rub against the mattress, but he just can't turn far enough. There's no blanket to move against, his desperate thrusts upward meeting only thin air. His wrists are raw from his frantic efforts to free himself. 

And every minute, the burning in his body seems to get worse.

He can't take much more of this.

His head snaps around when the door opens quietly, and Rochefort steps into the room, looking pensive. Their gazes meet, and Athos forces his burning body to keep still, grits his teeth to keep his moans in. He will not give Rochefort the satisfaction to see him desperate like this. The only things he can't control is his breath, which keeps coming in agonized gasps, and his swollen cock that keeps twitching on his stomach.

Rochefort slightly shakes his head. "Still stubborn, I see", he says. "I must admit, you're holding up well. Just like I did. But then I had her to think of. Who do you have, hmm?"

Athos thoughts snap to Anne, Anne who is now openly whoring around with the king. No, there's no solace to find there. He's on his own in this.

Rochefort brings him water again, and this time, Athos greedily drinks without hesitation. He feels feverish, parched, and the cool water flowing down his throat feels heavenly. Or would, if his cock was not pulsing angrily, demanding release.

"Good", Rochefort murmurs soothingly, stroking his hair, and it's telling of how far gone Athos is that it does not even seem weird to him. "You needed that. But now..." Suddenly, he grabs Athos' hair sharply, pulling back, and when Athos gasps in shock, he pours something spicy in his mouth. Reflexively, Athos swallows, then coughs. 

He shudders when he sees the flagon with the amber liquid in Rochefort's hand, then squeezes his eyes shut in despair. More of that hellish brew? Something dribbles on his cock, and the burning there intensifies. Athos bites back a sob, refusing to open his lids. 

"This should suffice", Rochefort's voice reaches his ear. "I will be back in a while. I guess you'll be ready then." 

His steps retreat, the door clicks. Then silence.

XXX

When Rochefort enters the room again, Athos is openly sobbing. He can't think anymore, can't feel anything but that unbearable fire searing every nerve in his body. His skin feels raw, even the touch of the sheet to his back seems too much, and not enough at the same time. He shifts constantly, trying to ease that burn. Sweat covers his face, and he is panting like a dog between the dry sobs. His eyes are wide and unfocussed, seeing nothing.

"Well", Rochefort murmurs. "That takes me back. And not in a good way."

Athos feels as if the deep tone of the voice is strumming through him, reaching right into his cock. He moans, thrusting upward, crying out wordlessly.

Rochefort kneels down next to the bed, his hand touching Athos' face. Athos rubs against it, desperate for any touch, any contact, anything to feed this terrible need. Rochefort's fingers wander to his lips, and again, Athos cries out at the sensation. Mindlessly, his tongue darts out, tangling in those long, strong fingers. His hips pump helplessly.

"The cruelest thing about it is that you will remember everything with perfect clarity tomorrow", Rochefort whispers. "Everything you say, everything you do, everything that is done to you will be branded into your brain. The perfect humiliation. So tell me, Athos, do you want me to touch you?"

"Yes, yes", Athos sobs, beyond caring for anything but ending this agonizing plight of his body. He wants to be touched, he _needs_ to be touched, no matter who it is. Or what.

"Alright then", Rochefort says. "Just let me..." And with this, something winds around the base of Athos' cock, with a sharp, sudden pain, constricting around it firmly. Athos eyes fly open just as Rochefort finishes tying a thin, red silk rope around it.

Athos mewls in protest, and Rochefort turns, his hands sliding over Athos's skin in a strangely soothing gesture.

"Otherwise you'd come at the first touch", he says. "We can't have that."

Athos' body bows under Rochefort's hands, his balls pulsing, but he can't come, that hateful piece of string blocking him.

He starts sobbing again, no trace left of his former pride, his resolution. All of it has been eroded away in the last hours of agony. "Please,", he begs. 

"You'll need to tell me what to do, Athos", Rochefort's voice whispers into his ear. "I won't do anything you don't ask me for. Just tell me want you want."

"T... touch me", Athos gasps, and a cool hand slides over his stomach, his hip, and down his leg, avoiding the place he needs it most. Still, it feels as if small flames dance in the wake of that light touch, and Athos moans, wanting more. 

Suddenly, his legs come free, and he pulls them up, tries to rub his thighs against his cock, but they are nudged apart, and something touches his backside, something cool and slippery. He barely has time to moan in protest before a finger slides into him. Then that finger touches something, and sparks dance before his eyes. He throws his head back and keens.

"God, Athos", Rochefort's voice has taken on a hoarse note. "Damned if you don't look beautiful like this. You're making me hard. This might not be such a chore after all."

He adds another finger, slathering more of that slick, cool stuff into him, and Athos cries out, pushing against the hand. "You want my cock?" Rochefort asks, roughly, and Athos nods, yes, yes, anything, anything to ease this.

"Does not work this way", Rochefort rasps. "You have to ask for it. What do you want me to do, Athos?"

"F... Fuck me", Athos sobs, letting go of the last shred of his dignity. "Fuck me, please. Please!"

A hand grabs his hair, pulls his head back. "Look at me", Rochefort growls. "Say my name. Tell me whose cock your asking for."

Athos' unfocused eyes meet Rochefort's, which are darker than he's ever seen them, burning with intensity. Somewhere down the road he must have chucked his clothes, because he's not wearing a thread, but Athos could not tell when, and he does not care.

"Rochefort", he gasps. "Fuck me, Rochefort!"

Rochefort shudders, closing his eyes for a second. Then he spreads Athos's legs further and slowly pushes his hips forward. The both gasp at the sensation. Athos keens and bucks, trying to impale himself faster, his cock burning and twitching, his balls contracting dryly, his need to come still blocked by that blasted string.

When he is finally inside, Rochfort curses and sinks forward, his head bent. "Fuck, Athos", he breathes. "So hot and tight. Not gonna last long."

He starts moving slowly, but Athos does not need slow, he needs fast and hard, even if this is the first time with a man, and the unfamiliar intrusion should be unpleasant and painful. But the drug took care of that, and he just knows he needs more.

"Harder", he gasps. "More! Do it harder."

Rochefort gives something like a hoarse groan and starts pumping into him, and Athos cries out, again seeing stars as Rochefort keeps hitting that spot. "Fuck yes", Rochefort moans, and it stokes Athos' need even more, hearing the lust in the other man's voice. 

Rochefort crashes forward, and suddenly his mouth is on Athos', greedy, demanding, hungry, and Athos keens again, latching on, his tongue seeking out Rochefort's. Rochefort moans into his mouth, his movements getting erratic, and Athos feels a hand fumbling between them, and then the pressure around his cock is gone, and he's coming, coming, coming with a fiery intensity he's never experienced before. He screams and screams as he bucks under Rochefort, his vision going white, faintly aware that Rochefort screams with him, their mouths still locked together.

They collapse back onto the bed, Rochefort landing heavily next to Athos. Fingers swipe over Athos's chest, and then something is smeared on his mouth, something salty and bitter, and he knows exactly what it is.

The first spark of shame kindles in his gut as Rochefort's breathless voice reaches his ear. "Remember that, Athos", the other man pants. "Remember how I made you come."

Then Athos passes out from sheer exhaustion.


	2. Turnabout's a Bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This is the second part of my Athos/Rochefort story. It's not getting any less disturbing, so the same warnings as for the first part apply. So... um... enjoy?_

Athos stares down at his "prisoner", his eyes burning. Revenge is going to be a bitch.

Rochefort is just coming to, groaning softly, his dark lashes fluttering. His eyes open, and he blinks, his deep blue irises still unfocused. He shifts on the bed, but since he's tied down, he can't really move.

Abruptly, his eyes zoom in on Athos, suddenly alert. His mouth tightens, but that is the only reaction he lets on. Athos leans against the wall, returning the stare wordlessly.

None of them moves or speaks for some time, while Athos tries to get up his resolve. And he needs a _lot_ of resolve to go through with this.

He has to do it, though. Has to. To regain control of the situation. Control of his life. Erase the feeling of helplessness, being defenceless and completely at another's mercy. Weak. It's been eating away at him for the last weeks, exactly as Rochefort intended.

He remembers perfectly, just as Rochefort told him. Remembers begging for it, moaning like a bitch in heat. Being touched by another man should make his skin crawl, doubly so if said man is _Rochefort_. Instead, he clung to the guy, pleading for more, _begging for cock._

Athos' stare is drawn to Rochefort's mouth, those narrow, but beautifully formed lips. 

He has been _kissing_ that mouth. Hot, wet and open. Hungrily. Sobbing with need.

A growl tears from his throat. He might have been able to live with the rest, humiliating as it has been. But that kiss is branded into his memory. That kiss is what broke him then, what threatens to break him for good. What he keeps dreaming about at night, haunting him in his sleep.

And he refuses to break. He _will_ take control again. Turn the tables. Do unto others as has been done onto him.

And then, he will be able to move on.

Two quick steps bring him to Rochefort's side, and he drops down on his knees, his hand fisting the short blond hair. It feels soft between his fingers. Silky. With another growl he brutally pulls the other man's head back, just like Rochefort did to him, using the inevitable pained gasp to pour something into Rochefort's mouth.

Rochefort coughs, trying to spit it out, but Athos' hands clamp around his jaws like a vise, the other pinching his nose shut. Rochefort struggles like a tiger, trying to yank his head free, but finally, he has to swallow. Athos lets go, and Rochefort gasps for air, his eyes closing in defeat.

When they open again, Athos sees fear in those eyes for the first time ever, a haunted expression. Resignation. Rochefort knows exactly what's to come.

"Where did you get it?", he asks, softly.

"Wasn't hard", Athos shrugs. "You're not the only one spending time in a Spanish prison. That stuff seems quite en vogue there. I also got this." He holds up a second bottle, containing the viscous white fluid.

Rochefort's eyes close again, resigned to his fate. He does not speak, does not move. 

Athos opens the bottle, dripping some of the white stuff on Rochefort's limp cock. Rochefort makes a small noise, full of despair, and Athos fights the guilty feeling that rises in his throat. He's not the bad guy here. This is just retaliation. An eye for an eye. 

And then he will be able to put it all behind him.

He should spread the stuff around like Rochefort has done, but he can't bring himself to touch Rochefort... there. He just pours more, hoping it will spread on his own. Rochefort's cock starts hardening, and another desolate whimper escapes his mouth. 

With a jerky motion, Athos puts the stopper back on. 

"Could not... keep away?", Rochefort taunts, despite his breathing getting ragged, but his voice is bleak. "Was it... that good for you?"

"Don't flatter yourself", Athos bites out, throwing Rochefort's words back at him. "This is a means to an end. Turnabout's a bitch, Rochefort. You will not break me. After this, my life is my own again."

Rochefort laughs, a harsh, wheezing noise. "Wonder if that's going to work out for you", he gasps, his body twitching as the drug takes effect.

Athos just grits his teeth, refusing to answer. "See you in a while", just says, and turns to the door.

XXX

When he returns, Rochefort's body is shining in the candlelight with a fine sheen of sweat, his muscles taut and trembling. His face is flushed, his lips parted around short, shallow breath. His eyes find Athos' immediately, and there is something in them that makes Athos flinch inwardly. They are burning with that strange intensity that seems so characteristic for Rochefort, but now, it has taken on a new quality, a darkness lurking beneath, a glimpse of insanity, of bleakest desperation.

 _It's not fair,_ Athos rails against the choking guilt that crashes into him for doing this to another man, sending someone spiralling into that kind of hell. He's just doing to Rochefort what Rochefort has already done to him. Why should he feel guilty when Rochefort went blithely through with it?

Besides, he _needs_ to do it, to find closure and to move on.

Still, he has a hard time convincing himself that this is justified, necessary even. He licks his suddenly dry lips as his gaze travels down Rochefort's body, anything to avoid those haunting eyes.

And feels a tingle in his cock that shocks him out of his stasis. Dear God, that man is beautiful. Strong and muscular, without being bulky, the skin a soft golden hue, the scars that come from a life of war and battles - and probably from being held for years in a Spanish prison - only accenting that beauty instead of diminishing it.

And it freaks Athos out that he is even thinking like that about another man, let alone one he hates from the bottom of his heart.

Getting aroused has _not_ been on the program.

He jerks the bottle of amber liquid out of his pocket, suddenly eager to get it over with, so he'll be able to flee this room, get away from the man tied to the bed. At least until he's found his mental balance again.

Rochefort lets out a small sob when he sees the bottle.

"Please...", he croaks. "No more... not fighting it, just take what you want... but no more, no more..."

"You did it to me, Rochefort", Athos bites out, and again, he has to fight down the guilt. What really frightens him though is the heady rush that accompanies it, at having Rochefort at his mercy like this, in his power, seeing him come undone. Another tingle of excitement shoots into his cock. 

He does not recognize the man he's becoming. He thought he was better than that.

His hands shake as he pulls Rochefort's head back by his hair, and pours down another dose of the drug down his throat. Rochefort does not fight it, just swallows, silent tears streaming from his eyes. Seeing them intensifies that maddening mixture of guilt and sick arousal that fills Athos' mind.

He grits his teeth and forces himself to get on with it, pulling out the other bottle, pouring a liberate dose over Rochefort's cock - which is not limp anymore, but swollen and nearly purple in colour. Athos knows from experience that it hurts like hell - and that more of the white stuff will make it worse.

Rochefort moans in agony, his body bowing off the mattress. Athos stares down in helpless fascination. It's one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen. And it's caused by pain. Pain inflicted by _him._

He jerks around, desperately needing out of here, his stomach churning with an unholy mix of black emotions, but he's stopped by Rochefort's voice.

"Cruel, Athos", the other man gasps, his voice hoarse. "I did not think you had that in you."

Athos closes his eyes and blindly makes for the door.

Neither did he.

XXX

An hour later, Athos forces himself to return. He very nearly chickened out, frightened to death by that black abyss he's discovering in his own soul. The part of him that _enjoys_ watching Rochefort suffer.

But if he turns away now, things will get worse than before. After what Rochefort did to him, he _needs_ to go through with it - prove himself that he's still able to take control. Dominate Rochefort like Rochefort dominated him. Correcting that shift in power Rochefort forced. Becoming his enemy's equal again.

He needs this, otherwise he might as well find the biggest bottle in France and never climb out of it again. Or drown himself in the Seine. Same thing in the end, only quicker.

The small, dinky room is filled with Rochefort's keening when Athos opens the door. Rochefort's hips are pumping wildly, helplessly, and his pupils are blown wide as he stares at Athos. His eyes are awash with tears. His cock looks even more swollen than before, unhealthy, ready to burst.

Knowing what Rochefort needs now, Athos walks over to the small table at the wall, pours a large glass of water and puts it to Rochefort's lips. The man drinks greedily, something like gratitude mixing into the desperate stare. It makes Athos feel even more like shit.

But this was it. He had to do it. Now. No more running away. Another hour, and all of this would be over. Athos would be free again.

And hopefully find a way to live with what he discovered inside himself today.

He procures a thin, silken cord, just like the one Rochefort has used on him, and swiftly binds off the base of Rochefort's cock. Rochefort sobs, but makes no effort to resist, surrendering himself to his fate.

One hour. At most. Then Athos will leave this hell he alone created behind. He tells himself he can to this.

With shaking hands, he starts to undress, painfully aware of Rochefort's slightly unfocused gaze on him. He knows that Rochefort's mind is fuzzy with the drug right now, his thoughts muddled, but he still thinks he can feel the accusation in those eyes.

But when he dares to meet them, he can only see resignation, and desperation. 

"Please", Rochefort's hoarse whisper is nearly inaudible. "No knives. Please."

Athos blinks, shocked out of his battle with himself. "What?", he asks, thinking he heard that wrong, dropping to his knees next to the bed, staring at Rochefort with horror.

"No... knives", Rochefort repeats, still in that hoarse whisper. "Anything, but no knives."

"Dear God", Athos whispers. "They used _knives_ on you?"

Rochefort turns his head away, avoiding Athos' eyes. "Used anything on me. Sticks. Bats. Stones. Shoved it all in me. But he knives..." He shudders, another sob ripping from his throat.

Athos swallows. "Bloody hell", he breathes. He knows Rochefort would never tell him all that if he was in his right mind, would never let his enemy know about the torment, the humiliation he suffered.

And Athos has never thought his feelings for Rochefort could get so mixed up like that. He hates the man, he truly does. He's the enemy. But Athos can't help but be overwhelmed with sympathy. Pity. No one should go through what Rochefort has endured. It's a wonder there's a shred of sanity left in him.

And Athos feels like a monster, forcing the man to relive all that.

He has to put that right. 

His hand reaches out, stroking through Rochefort's soft hair, over his cheek. "No knives, Rochefort", he whispers softly. "No more pain."

Rochefort moans and nuzzles into Athos' hand, and Athos remembers doing exactly that when Rochefort stroked his cheek, the need for touch drowning out everything else.

Rochefort's eyes open, and the gratitude there hits Athos like a fist. "Thank you", Rochefort whispers. And smiles at Athos.

And everything goes downhill from there.

Athos' breath catches in his throat. That smile is like a slap to the face, and Athos drowns in the sudden maelstrom of feelings that wells up, choking him. He forces Rochefort to relive this nightmare, and the guy is _smiling_ at him? Gratefully?

Oh God. He truly is a monster.

And besides sending his guilt into overdrive, that smile hits Athos with its beauty, making his heart ache for more reasons than pity or sympathy.

Without thinking, he closes his eyes and seeks those lips with his own, a strange tenderness driving him, a sudden impulse to make right what has been done to Rochefort in the past.

That simple, grateful smile has catapulted Rochefort out of the enemy category, at least for the moment, and an absurd rage for those people who abused him like this fills Athos, accompanied by an equally absurd protective instinct.

Only the moment his lips softly touch Rochefort's, the other man groans deep in his throat, body convulsing, and his mouth opens willingly, his tongue invading Athos' mouth greedily, turning the intended tender kiss into something completely different.

Athos moans in surprise, a shudder running through him as his cock comes alive with a vengeance, his hands fisting into Rochefort's hair reflexively.

Inside his head, a voice is screaming, afraid of what's happening to him, but it's drowned out by the roaring of his blood in his ears, by the overwhelming arousal that's rushing through his body.

He rips his lips away, Rochefort's protesting moan only fanning the flames. Impatiently, Athos starts tugging on the ropes binding Rochefort's feet, cursing until they finally fall away.

Immediately, Rochefort pulls his legs up, groaning with need, and Athos remembers doing exactly that, the need for friction driving him out of his mind. His own cock is throbbing, and he's stumped by the intensity of his urge to be _inside._

But he's promised no more pain. He has never done this before, could never even imagine fucking another man until now, but he knows he has to prepare Rochefort for this. Fumbling around wildly for the jar of gel he brought, he exhales with relief when his fingers finally find it between his discarded clothes.

His fingers find Rochefort's entrance, slathering it with the viscous stuff, and Rochefort moans again, his legs falling wide, granting Athos access. With another aching pang in his heart, Athos understands just how used Rochefort is to this, how often he must have endured this.

That only serves to strengthen Athos' urge to make this good for the other man, make him feel pleasure, to erase the memory of pain in Rochefort's mind. 

He has been so determined to make Rochefort beg for it, like he himself had to do, but now he can't bring himself to add to all that anguish.

Besides, once he's back in his right mind, Rochefort will be humiliated enough when he remembers telling Athos about the abuse he suffered.

Careful, not really knowing how to go about this, Athos enters one finger, then adds another. Is he going too fast? Is this alright?

Rochefort's low, keening voice as he calls out for Athos is answer enough. Slowly he starts to move his hand, fascinated by the feeling of that soft flesh around him.

He had been so sure he'll find this revolting. To be disgusted, touching another man like this. But now he thinks it's hot as hell, watching Rochefort's strong body bow with need, hearing his name tumbling from Rochefort's lips, hoarsely, full of lust.

Even though he knows the drug is causing it.

It still makes him shudder with desire.

"A...thos", Rochefort keens again. "Now, now, please, need it..."

Athos moans as Rochefort's needy voice sends another bolt of hot desire through him. He has no idea if he's done enough to ensure this will not hurt Rochefort, but he's losing control fast. Shaking, he crawls up, bringing himself in position, gasping as the tip of his cock touches Rochefort's entrance.

In his mind, that voice is screaming at him again, telling him not to go through with this, that this is sick and unnatural and a sin, and just plain _wrong._ He hesitates for a second, despite shaking with the need to push forward, but Rochefort has different ideas, shoving down as far as his bonds let him, causing the tip of Athos's cock to breach in.

They both groan at the sensation, and Athos' control snaps. He pushes inside with one motion, his eyes rolling back at the hot pressure around him, like nothing he has ever felt before.

"Fuck, Rochefort", he moans, dimly wondering if he was going too fast, but Rochefort's deep moan, followed by a sobbed "Yes, more, please more..." makes Athos' spine bow. There it is again, that heady feeling of power, feeding the blazing lust cursing through him.

He starts pumping his hips, no longer able to think of anything but the friction around his cock, but Rochefort just cries out, arching from the mattress, trying to give Athos even deeper access. Athos falls forward, catching himself on his elbows, his mouth finding Rochefort's, licking, sucking, biting, and Rochefort shudders, his moaning nearly incessant now. 

Athos feels the pressure rising, knows he's only seconds away from exploding, and he fumbles between them, freeing Rochefort's cock from the cord stopping him from coming.

The moment it comes off, Rochefort's head slams back into the pillow, his body convulsing wildly, and he screams and screams until his voice breaks as he pumps his come between them. Athos falls over the edge with him, his hips jerking wildly as he also comes violently, screaming with his face buried in Rochefort's neck.

Afterward, Athos does not move for endless moments, frozen by the intensity of what he just experienced, by the dizzying mixture of emotions that battle in his chest.

When he finally dares to lift his head and meet Rochefort's eyes, he finds them strangely clear, returning his gaze with an unsettling calm, inscrutable. Athos wildly fishes around in his brain for something to say, anything, but draws a blank.

And then Rochefort turns his world upside down again when the corners of his mouth quirk up with the ghost of a smile, and he lifts his head, brushing Athos' lips softly with his own. 

And while Athos is still staring down on the other man, feeling once more like someone has just slapped him, Rochefort simply closes his eyes, snuggles his head into the crook of Athos' arm, and goes to sleep.

XXX

After finally finding the energy to carefully disentangle himself from Rochefort's limbs, Athos sits down heavily on the side of the bed, staring down at the man peacefully sleeping within.

His mind is reeling from trying to keep up with the strange, abrupt turns this evening has thrown him. Nothing has gone as he had planned.

Not Rochefort's reactions. His own even less. 

He hardly feels like he knows himself anymore.

And even though he has been the one in control, the aggressor in this scenario, just as he planned, he simply can't shake the feeling that he's not the winner in the game he started.

Somehow, Rochefort has managed to throw him for a loop, coming out on top.

And for the life of him, Athos can't tell how that happened.

And where he will go from here.


	3. The Games we Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So I finally worked up the courage to post the third part. Um. I kinda sorta might even be working on a fourth part. Don't know how that happened... So. Here it is. The third part of this trainwreck of a story. It's not as bad as the first two parts though, I hope, but I'll let you readers be the judge of that._

Athos frowns as he regards the posh inn, then draws the crumpled note out of his pocket, checking the address once more. It matches.

Why ever would Porthos want to meet him here, to discuss the matter of Aramis? He probably was looking for neutral ground, away from prying eyes and ears, but still this seems not exactly like an establishment Porthos would frequent.

On the other hand, if he wanted to work on a plan to get Aramis out of prison, out of Rochefort's clutches, maybe it makes sense to look for a locale no one would expect you to choose. Because in all probability such a plan would be something completely reckless the captain would have their hides for even contemplating.

Rochefort. Just thinking of him makes Athos burn with hatred. He can't believe he ever felt a smidgen of sympathy for the man. The night he had tied the guy to the bed seems like a dream – or rather a nightmare - by now. Unreal. 

Because while Athos was still reeling with guilt over what he did to Rochefort, the bastard was already plotting - and executing - another plan for their downfall. This time taking the queen down with them, and setting Aramis up for execution.

So if Porthos has any ideas how to turn this situation around, Athos is totally game. No matter how reckless.

Determined, he enters the inn and looks around, taking in the place. It's a nice, middle class establishment, respectable, but not overly luxurious. A bit sombre perhaps.

So unlike Porthos.

Shrugging, he walks up to the reception, where an elderly man with a carefully waxed moustache smiles at him in greeting. When Athos introduces himself and asks for Porthos, the man nods and checks his ledgers.

"Bonsoir, Monsieur Athos. M. du Vallon is expecting you in room..." his finger slides along the ledger until he reaches Porthos' name, "... fourteen. It's up the stairs on the second floor. Refreshments have already been served. If you need anything, please ring the bell."

Athos thanks the man and makes his way up the brightly lit stairs and down the short corridor of the second floor, until he reaches a door marked fourteen. After a short knock he enters, but stops in his tracks, gaping in disbelief at the sight that meets his eyes.

The room is largely what he expected, clean, respectable, comfortable if not posh, with a large bed, a dark wooden table flanked by a couple of cushioned chairs, and an armoire at the far wall, but the man awaiting him inside is not Porthos.

At the table, looking slightly dishevelled as always, with his shirt gaping open to show the smooth skin of his chest and his collection of chains and pendants peeking out sits Rochefort, seeming totally relaxed, leaning backwards in the chair with his booted feet propped up on the table. He is regarding Athos with an inscrutable expression in his dark blue eyes.

Athos hisses, taking a step forward, his hand going for his trusted rapier, the impulse to run Rochefort through nearly irresistible.

Rochefort makes no move to get up, just lifts his hand in a stopping motion. "That", he says sharply, "would be a grave mistake."

His own hand clenched around the grip of his weapon so hard his knuckles go white, Athos growls. "Give me one reason I should not kill you."

Rochefort's lips curl back in something that is not exactly a smile. "First, because I won't go down easily. And second, I'm the only one who can save your comrade from certain death. That's two reasons, but I'm sure I could think up more if you wish."

Athos grits his teeth, but refrains from attacking - for now. He doubts Rochefort would really do anything to save Aramis, seeing that he is the one causing all the chaos and suffering, but he can't risk blowing this if there is even the slightest chance to get Rochefort to relent.

"What do you want?", he snarls, his fingers not releasing the grip of his rapier yet.

"Sit", Rochefort says, indicating at the chair opposite to him, and with stiff, angry movements, Athos does.

Rochefort pulls his feet from the table, sits up, and draws his other hand out of his pocket. He puts something on the table, idly pushing a small flagon back and forth. Athos eyes are glued to the small bottle with the familiar amber liquid, and he feels the blood drain from his face as dread settles in his stomach.

"No way", he says, his voice taking on a hoarse note. "I'm _not_ letting you tie me up again. You're _not_ feeding that stuff to me."

But he knows it's just posturing. To save Aramis, he will resign to anything, even if the thought makes his bowels churn with fear.

Rochefort looks up from the bottle, meeting his eyes, and smiles without humour. He picks the flagon up, turning it between his fingers, then pulls the stopper, and sets it to his lips.

Staring in disbelief, Athos watches the other man drink with quick, determined swallows. When Rochefort sets the bottle back on the table, half the content is gone.

A double dose.

Still stunned, Athos meets that eerily intense blue gaze, his own eyes wide with shock, and again shudders at the hint of madness lurking in those depths. It seems that Rochefort did slide even closer to the edge since their last encounter. Briefly, Athos wonders if he is responsible for that, if he was the one setting Rochefort on a course that threatens to destroy the royal house.

Rochefort just holds his gaze, wordlessly, although his breathing quickens slightly.

"You're crazy", Athos finally chokes out, so dumbfounded it even pushes back the wrath he felt moments ago.

Rochefort smiles again, a weary little smile that does funny things to Athos, like make butterflies dance in his stomach. "That's the popular opinion", he says softly.

Athos takes his hat off and throws it on the table, forking both his hands through his hair in confusion. He just can't make heads or tails of this. What is Rochefort up to this time?

"Why?", he finally asks the only question that comes to his mind.

Rochefort gets up with an abrupt, but fluid motion, and starts pacing the room. Already his face seems slightly more flushed than minutes ago. His fingers slide through his hair, making it look even more tousled than usual. 

Athos can't help but think how good that looks on the man. 

How silky that hair felt between his fingers. 

Rochefort blessedly stops this thought when he leans with his back to the wall, his chest moving with his quick breaths. The drug must be taking effect by now. He closes his eyes for a second, then opens them again to stare at Athos, and again Athos is struck by the darkness in Rochefort's eyes, the madness lurking in them, the desperation.

"Because I'm drowning, Athos", Rochefort replies softly, a hoarse note in his voice. "Been drowning for years, but I always had a lifeline to hold on to. Now it's turned out to be a straw. And I'm going under."

“The queen”, Athos breathes, the final piece of the puzzle falling into place. “That’s why you’re doing all this. Why you hate Aramis so much.”

Rochefort’s eyes close, but not before Athos sees the pain flit through them. Then Rochefort hisses, and his back bows slightly off the wall. Athos can't help but notice the bulge forming under the black leather of his pants.

“Will you watch as I drown, Athos?”, Rochefort asks, his voice strained, breathless. “Or will you throw me a line?”

Athos stares at the other man, his feelings more confused than he ever thought possible. Seeing Rochefort like this, realizing how damaged, how broken the guy is, knowing what has been done to him in the past, finally understanding what drives him to do what he does, knowing what it must cost Rochefort to leave himself vulnerable like this, he just can’t hold on to the simple hate he felt so far.

Oh, he still hates the man. No question about that. But underneath that, there’s understanding. And yes, pity. Damn, even a connection. He can relate.

And as Rochefort hisses again, his hand going for the bulge in his pants, only to ball it into a fist and force it back to his side, his body wrecked by tremors, something else mixes into that emotional cocktail, something visceral. Hungry.

“God, that’s strong”, Rochefort bites out. “Might run out of time here, Athos.”

“Why me?”, Athos asks, his voice husky. “Of all people, why me? You hate me.”

Rochefort laughs, but it turns into a wheeze as another tremor runs through him. He opens his eyes, and Athos has the impression of staring right into the abyss. He shivers.

“Oh, I do”, Rochefort whispers harshly. “But you _understand,_ Athos. You know what it’s like being hollow. Empty. Clinging to the one person that could fill that void, and see your hopes turn to dust. To watch from afar as someone else takes what you crave most in the world. To be unwanted. To chase a dream only to find that reality is a bitter bitch intent on tearing your heart to shreds.”

Rochefort shudders, slumping a little as his breathing grows ragged. His arms shake with the effort to keep from touching himself, his hands are balled to fists so tight his knuckles turn white.

“Athos...”, he gasps.

Frozen, Athos stares at the man for endless seconds, watching him struggle, feeling like someone just floored him.

Because Rochefort is right. He _does_ understand.

On so many levels, they are the same.

He watches Rochefort fight against the effects of the drug, and the familiar shameful heat washes through him. Rochefort is... beautiful in his suffering. Alluring.

With shaking hands Athos reaches for the small bottle, feeling Rochefort’s eyes burn him.

Quickly, before he can think better of it, he downs the remains of the amber liquid.

A double dose.

Because he needs it to go through with what he’s about to do. 

Not for the aphrodisiac effect.

So he can pretend his body is not perfectly ready to do this anyway.

That he does not, in fact, want this.

It seems like Rochefort is not the only madman in this room.

Athos stumbles to his feet and makes his way through the chamber, never taking his eyes from Rochefort’s.

Rochefort is openly panting by now, his pupils dilated, his body shaking. And Athos is hard, so hard, and he tries not to think of the fact that the amber stuff had no time to affect him yet.

This is his enemy. Another man.

He should be filled with ice-cold disgust.

But instead, he’s _burning._

He leans against Rochefort, chest to chest, and licks a slow line along Rochefort’s neck, from his shoulder to his jaw. They both gasp, and Athos shudders when Rochefort’s back bows, pressing that beautiful body harder into his own.

Rochefort mewls, his hands digging into Athos’s shoulders, and then Rochefort’s mouth finds Athos', aggressively, invading, demanding. Athos moans as the fire in him flares, making his cock pulse angrily, his hands grabbing Rochefort’s narrow hips, gripping with what must be a painful force. Rochefort does not seem to mind. He rolls his hips, the bulge in his leathers sliding along the answering one Athos’ pants.

Athos can’t tell anymore if the drug finally takes effect, or if it just comes naturally, but he’s on fire, the need to possess drowning out all rational thought. He starts dragging Rochefort in the direction of the bed, his mouth wandering to the man’s neck, kissing, licking, sucking, biting in a frenzy.

Rochefort keens, a needy, plaintive noise, and starts ripping at Athos clothes. It’s hard to undress without letting go of the other person, but somehow they manage to lose most of their clothing. Some of it even remains intact in the process.

Tumbling on the mattress Athos seeks Rochefort’s mouth again for another of those hungry kisses.

“Fill me, Athos”, Rochefort whispers into his mouth.

And Athos does.

xxx

Athos can’t tell how much time has passed when they finally collapse back onto the twisted sheets, both panting heavily, bodies sated for now. It has been a wild ride, both of them frantic and feral, the need burning through them more and more demanding.

“Oh God”, Athos pants, still completely breathless.

He still can’t believe he did all of that with another man. It’s unthinkable. He never felt any... urges in that direction. So he decides to blame it all on the drug. But he has to admit the experience has been anything but unpleasant this time, without the agonizing built up. 

Rochefort moves a bit backwards, until his back touches Athos’ chest, and Athos has to force himself not to think about how much this resembles cuddling.

No cuddling Rochefort. Or else his mind might boggle.

“I think God forgot about both of us a long time ago”, Rochefort answers, equally breathless, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

He turns slightly towards Athos, and Athos gasps when his eyes fall to Rochefort’s neck, for the first time noticing the many spots, bruises and bite marks he left behind there. “Holy mother of God”, he whispers, shocked, tracing the markings with the tips of his fingers. “I think I... got a little carried away there.”

Rochefort laughs, and Athos blinks, stunned. The laugh is open and carefree, so unlike Rochefort, and Rochefort’s eyes shine with humour, the darkness in them banned, at least for now. “Don’t apologize before you’ve seen your back”, he smirks.

Now that Rochefort mentions it, his back is burning somewhat fierce. Athos dimly remembers there has been a lot of clawing involved, but at the time, he did not mind at all.

Groaning with embarrassment, Athos drops back into the pillows and closes his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore”, he says, helplessly.

Rochefort gives a dry chuckle as he sits up on the bed. “Welcome to my world”, he replies.

Athos groans again. “Curse you, Rochefort”, he says, without any real ire.

Rochefort scoffs. “Get in line”, he says drily. Then he gets up and starts gathering what’s left of his clothing, dressing quickly. Athos just watches wordlessly, blushing slightly as he takes in the badly torn fabric. Has he really been that... vehement?

Oh, who is he fooling? He has been _rabid._

This is truly mortifying. If only the floor would open up to swallow him whole.

“All the drug’s fault”, he mutters to himself.

Rochefort looks up, his gaze inscrutable. Obviously the guy has ears like a fox. “Did not use it the first time”, he says, matter-of-factly. “And _you_ did not the second time around.”

As Athos slumps with embarrassment and covers his eyes with his hands, Rochefort throws on his wide cloak, hiding the damage underneath. “The room is paid for”, he says, his back to Athos. “See you tomorrow.”

With that, he is out of the room before Athos can utter a word.

As the door clicks shut, Athos starts, sitting upright, groaning as he slaps his forehead with his palm.

He has been so busy feeling embarrassed that he completely forgot to nail Rochefort on the matter of Aramis.

Worse. He’s completely forgotten there _is_ the matter of Aramis the moment his lips touched Rochefort’s.

He’s a total failure as a friend, and as a musketeer.

xxx

When the summons to the king comes to them the next day, Athos has a hard time to keep his face neutral, to feign the same level of ignorance the others suffer. His heart is beating madly as they follow Captain Treville to the throne room.

The sight that meets his eyes makes throat constrict. Next to the king, who wears his usual sheepish grin, the one he always sports when things go his way, sits Queen Anne, her face an impenetrable mask.

Behind the throne, Rochefort is standing, a blank expression on his face that gives away nothing.

“Brilliant news, Captain Treville”, Louis croons, his inane grin widening even more. “This has all been a silly misunderstanding. That governess my wife hired – you really have to be more careful who you trust, dear – was behind it all. Rochefort found this unposted letter in her quarters. Seems like she had a crush on your man Aramis, and sought to punish him by creating this nasty rumour. I wonder what she could have been thinking. I’m forever indebted to my good friend Rochefort for uncovering her plan before someone was hurt.”

He takes the queen’s hand, giving her another of his childish smiles. “ _Of course_ the Dauphin is my son. I never really doubted you, dear.”

Athos eyes are drawn from that sickening display to the man behind the throne, meeting Rochefort’s gaze and finding it already fixed on him. There’s no telling what goes on in that head, the blue eyes giving nothing away. 

But something looks different. Athos frowns a little, until it hits him. Other than his usual dishevelled style, today Rochefort wears a high-necked coat with an artfully arranged cravat around his throat.

The moment Athos realizes what Rochefort is hiding under his clothes, he feels the blood rising to his cheeks with embarrassment. His eyes return to Rochefort’s, with a silent apology.

Rochefort’s mouth quirks in the slightest of smiles, not more than a slight lift of the corners, but his eyes suddenly hold a hint of amusement, seeming to invite Athos to share the joke.

And Athos can’t help but smile back.

Maybe this whole situation is salvageable after all.

**Author's Note:**

> _So, this is it, for now. As I said, there are more parts to this, and I might be brave enough to post them. Feel free to leave me a comment, though I dread to think what people might have to say about this *gulps*_


End file.
